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Arcana
Prologue: Thaumaturgy Matoya walked down the corridors. The ratmaid huddled in her black cloak as the room got closer and closer. Yashtol was dead. Her friend was gone forever. She was loyal to the Convocation, she had been loyal to the Ward, she had been loyal to Minfille, yet she died insane, screaming for destruction, and rotting from the inside out. In a sense, she had been a puppet of the Ward. Who was she supposed to be? Who am I supposed to be? The ratmaid paused and looked around. It was the Skysent's good fortune that there were few paths that lead to nowhere in the fortress of sorts. The Skein was all white, either wrought by Conjurers from the whitest of marble, or Veiled to look like it. Probably the latter. Aside from reflecting light right into the eyes of both Landborn and Skysent, it also did not help with navigation - all halls looked the same. Luckily for Matoya, she had lived here for all of her life - no night was not spend under these walls. Unluckily for Matoya, it was significantly less convenient to leave. All Skysent that even had the slightest chance of using the Ruin were confined here, and Yashtol had been one of them. She exceeded the Blessing's scales by a level, and rapid use had left to prolonged exposure to the Contamination. Her vulpine friend had to die, and Matoya could do nothing but weep. But there was, like many other little things, a problem. If all the Convocation feared was Skysent getting evil and snapping the world into little pieces again, then why keep them alive? Tancred kept secrets about Yashtol, and hid them from me even when I asked about them. As Haumeric, he is also privy to the dealings of the Ward and the Convocation alike. He is the only one who knows the truth. If only there were another… Seeing a white cloak in the Sitting Hall, Matoya dashed forward, almost tripping on her cloak twice in the process, and earning a chuckle from her Bonder. The otter graduated from the Scholasticate as one of its best, and so his future among the Convocation's elite was all but secure. His destiny lay elsewhere, however, for Zephirin, having observed Tancred's exceptional Conjuring abilities, bid him join the Heavens' Ward. A Landborn of strong and unbending principles, the newly dubbed Haumeric has long strived to walk the righteous path, and so he holds beasts who dwell in what is evil (like Charibert, for instance) in great contempt. "Tancred." Matoya could have counted herself lucky for getting an Bondbeast who actually understands her. That already was rare, but the otter had actually grown to like her. "Hey." Normally, the otter would have been more enthusiastic, but the days have not been good on them. After all, their friend was dead, Minfille's getting more and more distant, and Matoya herself was about to hammer the final nail in the coffin. "Have you known about Yashtol all this time?" Matoya was all too tempted to cross her paws, but she held herself back at the last minute. "No." The taller Landborn knelt to meet her eyes. "Not all this time. Not from the start." A long, tense silence followed, and Matoya took two steps forward. "You knew that I'm a Thaumaturge, right? Just like she was." There was no reply. Paws were finally crossed. "But the Convocation tried to get us out of the way, right? To all of you Landborn, mice, squirrels, otters, hedgehogs - all of you! We are just tools!" "That's not true-" Tancred stammered forth just before he realised that it was true. "Alright. You win. But finding out the truth won't make you happy." "And suddenly you're so sure about that! I have the right to know the truth! What's wrong with wanting some answers?" Tancred sighed like it was the only thing he could do. "Matoya." "I need to know. I need answers. I need a purpose." The ratmaid turned away from her former friend. "And somebeast will give it to me. Somebeast else." She heard pawsteps converging on her, and lifted a claw towards the shocked Tancred. "I need to know. Where I'm headed to doesn't matter. I am done with this. I am done with you." She turned, and ran. Packing up was the easy part. Matoya never had anything much on her anyways. She had thoughts of staying before her last conversation with Tancred, but that was thrown out of the figurative window. Now, she scrambled to put as many canteens of smallbeer into a bag. She had no idea where she was going - the world is large and diverse, and not everybeast would tolerate a Skysent roaming around - some of the most hard-headed Landborn still called beasts like Matoya 'vermin'. Being a Thaumaturge made things much, much worse. The Windshard had been tainted by some pollution, which Zephirin has creatively dubbed 'the Contamination'. Thaumaturges like Matoya were feared more than hated - though she has not went off the deep end yet. All Thaumaturges, all Skysent who had the gift of magic, were all turned (or turning) into vile shells of their own self, capable of nothing but evil. For mastery had brought pride, and pride had its price. The ratmaid had only ventured into the Ruin, the Source of all Thaumaturgy thrice, and the ensuing sickness led to… consequences. But to find herself, to free herself, Matoya decided that she would raise the stakes. Picking up her staff from the wall, she sighed. Stardust might not have been an Amplifier, but Matoya found it a good thing to whack beasts on the head with. The bets were made, and the die has been cast, and she sprinted from the confines of her room for the last time. Escape from the Skein was never heard of before. After all, all vermin there were treated well by their Bondbeasts. As far as Matoya was concerned, she could even be the first. But she had steps to take before figuratively running away. The library was the place she had to head to. She just has to know all about what she can do. Funnily enough for her, there was no one stopping her. Could it be that Zephirin wants me free? No. 'All Thaumaturges are a blight to the world' and all that. So why isn't he here? As if on cue, a tingling sensation filled Matoya's bones. They're coming! Shadows pooled on the ground, and Matoya was no stranger to the ones that walked through them. Creatures welded and summoned by Conjuration. Matoya made no guess to whether they were Dancers, Berserkers, or Myrmidons - she ran. None of the three - none of the Arcane could run, and for once, the Skysent was gald about a design flaw. Skidding to the right, Matoya panted. She was here. The Skein library was the biggest in the whole of the Windshard - after all, the rest have been ruined by Thaumaturges who have been Contaminated. Most have been burnt to a crisp, and the rest are immersed in a fine layer of toxic gas, enough to kill a full-grown beast, though not enough to deter any others from venturing in. Pawsteps were heard, and Matoya hid behind a corner. "Are you sure that your Bonder has not released her Bond yet?" Zephirin. The head of the Ward was a stern shrew, with all the strain a position of leadership had brought on him etched on his face. He may not be tall by any means, but his mastery of Conjuration more than made up for it. "No. The Bond doesn't tell me her exact location though. I know for sure that she's here in the Skein, but it gets fuzzy from here." "It would simply be illogical to trace her down here - she must have moved forward to the gates now - or close to it." Zephrin scowled. Tancred, or Haumeric at the moment, smiled at his superior. "Agreed." Matoya sighed silently in relief as she heard the creation of a Pathway, and two beasts stepping away. The Skysent had heard tales of her kind being amongst the best of thieves. In other worlds, like the Watershard or the Earthshard, 'vermin' always carried that kind of reputation, while in the Fireshard or the Lightningshard, 'vermin' are treated just as well as other beasts - which wasn't too good either. Time changes the world, she supposed. Her efforts at sneaking were not that good. Tancred's way of thinking was to rush into battle with both chakrams, and that must have rubbed off on Matoya. Taking care to not trip on the tip of her toeclaws, Matoya made her way into the Depository. The smell of paper entered Matoya's nose with all the subtlety of a mace. Gliding to the Seercraft section, she placed her staff on the racks of books and began piling books into her bag. She needed them, after all. One maid in a whole wide world needs to know how to defend herself - especially with madness creeping over the horizon. Even if it means becoming a vile husk of her old self. She could barely hear a whizzing sound emanate from behind her. A Dancer! She barely had enough time to grab its arm before it lashed out at her throat, clipping her ear in the process. The tentacle-like appendage was halted, but it managed to slink away - just enough space for Matoya to whack it hard in the leg with Stardust. Stumbling, the Conjured abomination was unable to react to the second blow to the head. Dancers were tricky beings. They were slender, faceless constucts with flexible jointless appendages. They were exactly like golems, but without any hard part within them. They come out of nowhere, but the tables could be turned. More will come soon… She skulked through cases of books in what she imagined was a stealthy manner. Dropping to all fours, she surfed on the wooden floorboards. The exit may not be near, but she would make it. "Leaving so soon?" Matoya turned, and shivered. Minfille. The badger sow had never been the same after Yashtol's fall, and she seemed almost glad to let all the anger within her out. Called Hermenoste by the Ward, her Conjuration-enhanced battleaxe was a weapon of her own making, and it was one Matoya had never dreamed would have been used on her. Hermenoste's paws were crossed, and her eyes seemed to stare right into the rat's very soul. "As you know, we don't really accept resignations." "I don't have anything to say to you, Hermenoste." This was the first time Matoya had ever spoken to a Landborn rudely - she only hoped that it would be worth it. "Then let's keep everything short and sweet." The badger's face was stonelike as she Conjured her axe out of nowhere. But Matoya was already on her. Charging right into her with Stardust, she narrowly managed to guide the tip of the staff right into the larger beast's chest. With a grunt, Minfille staggered a bit, only to swing at the Thaumaturge. Spinning towards her left, the weary rat panted. Though she was not yet wounded, she was the more inexperienced fighter, and nothing good can come of fighting against a seer. She had no choice. Plunging deep into the Ruin, beyond the oily taint that had accumulated across its surface, she grasped it. Holding the urge to vomit, the ratmaid screamed. The badgersow could only form a Wind-shield around herself before the spear of ice tore through the air, smashing into the shield. Before the Warder could do more, another cold lance worked its way into the first one, shattering her shield and tearing through everything. The last image Hermenoste saw before slipping under was her broken axe clattering on the floorboards. Looks like Stardust is an Amplifier after all. Letting go of the Ruin took another effort not to gag, but soon Matoya was on her own two feet. "Matoya!" The ratmaid was tired of turning towards the voices of the Ward, so she didn't even respond to Tancred's voice. The otter glanced at the falen badger, then at the Thaumaturge. "Your mind's made up, huh?" He staggered as he felt the Bond between them slacken and disconnect. "I won't return. Ever." Matoya hid her nausea for a third time as she opened a Pathway of her own. No angling of worlds was needed, unlike every time Tancred did so. She simply punched through the Rift. "Nobeast would miss me anyways." "That's not true!" Tancred shouted as loud as he could, but the girl he had raised was already gone, maybe forever. "I would." Chapter 0: The Fool It is oft said that many stories have a starting place. Slowly, these tales weave themselves, straying from their origins, wherever they may be, crawling in some other direction. One such tale begins in Raevsvakt, where islands are sandwiched between two kingdoms, and where the trade flows like water. Beasts bartered away anything one could have thought of for gold, and above all an imprisoned lord wept in his bonds. Though this tale too begins on the crossing of two realms, just like the last; it is seasons and miles away from when and where its origin was told. This tale, our tale, begins in a much more turbulent region, fraught with war and pestilence. This could have been a field of plotting and intrigue, a place of beasts hidden behind cloaks and daggers in their paws. But all of this conniving, all of the happenings behind the scenes led to the inevitable. Open war. ---- "There. That ought to fix it." Thordan smiled as his patient flexed his toeclaws. The otter found his role as a healer to be his most important one, despite all that his fellows might say. "I don't think you should get yourself injured next time, Joris." The twenty-season old otter winked at his vulpine patient. "Particularly if there would be a battle within three hours." "That was an accident! I was running back from getting firewood when I tripped over a rock!" The fox called Joris moaned. "Well, it is awfully convenient for you, you cunning fox!" Thordan grinned openly. He was every a beast of mirth. "Twisting your ankle right before battle is a pretty great way to be a coward!" "I am no coward, Your Majesty!" The fox attempted to stand up, but remembered his injury and returned to a seating position. "Well, whatever you say." King Thordan of Parma rose up. "And just call me Thordan for the time being." The young otter laughed. King. Four of seven electors called him by that title - he himself was one of them - but three yet resist. The two mouse electors decided to stay loyal to their so-called-king. Otto Crestworth, Elector of Doma, had been placed on the throne by a stroke of fortune, but a stroke of different sort shall push him off Thordan's rightful seat. Thordan was still learning how to walk when his father died, and what followed was a decade-long civil war that Thordan's Trielo-Southard allies had kindly decided to restart for him. Which meant that the otter was in Obring - a place that he had remembered being, and a place that he had remembered hating.. Thordan examined his garb. He had forewent regalia and armour for a set of healer's robes, as they were the only clothes he was comfortable in. He was clothed in white all over, but the tips of his sleeves and his back were crimson-clad - to hide the blood, ostensibly. "Do you need anything to make you sleep through the next few hours?" The fox's ears perked up when he heard the word 'sleep'. It wasn't that he was lazy - it was a simple fact that helping running an inn would not allow for much opportunities for rest. "Well, I don't really know." the fox's eyes twinkled. This was the first time in which vermin have been used as regular troops in any pitched battle, and Joris was supposed to be one of Thordan's slingers - until he (quite ironically) tripped on a pebble. If vermin could fight fiercely against kings, then they could fight for them just as fiercely by the same token. "Nah, you don't need it yet." Thordan pocketed his sleeping draught. Some Trielian might just want to sell you into slavery while you snooze so far away from home. Watch your back." With that, King Thordan walked out of the healer's tent. ---- "How was parley?" Thordan asked. He was in a tent of many notable figures, but he could only talk to one of them at a time. Which was a pity, as he has more questions to ask than beasts in the canvas. "Horrible!" Haakon of Floret sighed. "Crestworth rejected all our demands, and most of our requests." The older otter was tall and lanky, and had a wit to match Thordan's, though he had the weirdest habit of identifying every otter on his mind with last names. "I assume that King Otto's little tantrum has something to do with my absence, does it not?" "Rest assured that he was absolutely fuming!" Gavin Swalestrom, Lord of Kaldos may not have the wit, but he had the charisma which his older brother sorely lacked. His voice deepened. "If that Garlean brat does not show up in the next few minutes, I shall tear his heart out and eat it! Thordan laughed at Gavin's imitation. Southsward was cold and wet - a breeding ground for folk whose hearts were as damp as the weather, but Gavin had proved to be a welcome exception to Thordan's initial assumptions. The two Swalestrom brothers were cousins of Thordan's much older wife, and Thordan could say with certainty that he would have married either of them had they been of the other (and fairer) sex. After all, they were much younger. "Did you tell him what my thoughts were?" Thordan scratched his chin with the rapid onset of sudden enthusiasm. "Yes." Haakon seemed to smile, though it was actually 'Traitors don't deserve an audience with the King of Parma'. I got that, and Crestworth did as well. He seemed to misread every word though. He needs help with reading between the lines." The three otters laughed, alongside a fourth voice. All three of them turned and saw a mouse. This was no normal, quaint farm-mouse that one might pass through in a tour through the country. This was a warrior. "Alright. So Otto's angry now." Prince Garmund was a serious mouse who favoured weapon practice to gossiping and plotting with fellow nobles, but he had to make an exception here for more pragmatic reasons. "Yeah, yeah." Thordan put his paws behind his head. "He's probably fuming." "One affirmation shall suffice, King Thordan." Garmund's eyes slanted disapprovingly towards the otter, who responded with a sheepish grin. "This is your plan, yes?" Haakon's claws crossed, forming a lattice. "To make him angry?" "Precisely." Garmund paced around the generals' tent. "In anger, mistakes are easily made. And King Otto is welling up with anger." He turned to Thordan. "It is quite hard to believe that you here already did damage to the enemy by not doing anything." The young otter bowed. "I thank you for the compliment." "Now, off to the battlefield with you three." Garmund smiled. He was merely a younger son of a king, but his elder brother's coronation as official co-king with his father was cancelled due to the pair's difficult relationship, which sometimes even made them come to blows. Thordan took a wide step back. "But I'm a healer. The wounded need me more than-" Garmund waved a paw. "You are also a king, so try to be one." ---- Thordan was quickly escorted to his own tent by two Trielian squires, who did not give their names. Thordan wished they had done so - after all, it is always good to meet new creatures. Trielians, being sticklers for etiquette, have their ranks pretty much defined from birth. If you were born a prince, chances are you either die one or a king. On the other side of things, peasants rarely get promoted to ranks above. Theoretically, this can always be done when a beast of low birth showed great bravery in battle, though occurrences like this are all too far and few between. Thordan, being raised in Garlesca, did not know that. Garlescans are usually reproached for their tyrannical ways, their cruelty and their insatiable cravings for physical pleasure - though Thordan has only been seen having the last vice. The armour was quickly laid and strapped onto Thordan's dark brown fur, and the surcoat followed, with the band of Garlesca inscribed by the Parman raven. The helmet quickly obscured green eyes and a smiling mouth. This is not as cumbersome as one might think… The troops were outside, trying to get a glimpse of their king. He raced into Kurburg but three hours before Otto got to him - enough time to win the population over and bar the gates. Otto had arrived with a weak and scanty force, so he had to retreat. The otter, called the 'Garlean Child' by friend and foe alike, was ready. It was a strange sight - woodlander and vermin fighting on the same side. Despite still harbouring distrust for each other, they had all made it across Obring Strait without any trouble, minus a few quarrels on the ships that Thordan diffused. "May we have your attention, everybeast?" Dressed in armour that was too big in him, and lacking the skill in rhetoric that had blessed both his grandfathers, the only thing Thordan could do was to make almost every single creature in front of him guffaw loudly. If Thordan was his namesake grandfather, he would have shouted his forces into submission. If Thordan was his father, he would have grabbed a few troops and behead them himself. But Thordan was no fool - he only appeared to be one. So he laughed alongside them like a proper fool would. When the laughter died down and the sniggering followed, Thordan lifted up his visor. "We are heading towards the main force of Otto Crestworth, he who calls himself King of Parma. But you know that." Thordan chuckled at his own joke. "He has a mighty force which faces our own within an hour." He cocked his head to one side. "Lords and princes would ask some stupid question about your loyalty, and all of you would shout 'Yes!' or something similar." The otter shook his head. "But we don't have need for these scripted rituals and the like. No, no. We already know that you are loyal to me - or my wallet." The crowd hooted with laughter. "One or the other!" "We know that you would all die for me - you would not have come here if you considered otherwise. But would you live for me?" A chorus of 'we will's erupted from the vermin below him, and the woodlanders said it as well, though with less enthusiasm. Being goaded to fight alongside vermin - the 'enemy' was supposed to fall under their blades, not fighting side to side or even back to back. "Alright. You know what to do, don't you?" He pointed at a brown-furred weasel distracted with chatting to a friend, who gasped at the sight of Thordan. "What's your name?" "Skuli, Your Radiance. Skuli Arnasson. Or Arnsson. Depends." The weasel bowed - too elegant for a woodlander, but the emotion conveyed by the gesture was sincere. Mostly. One can never be sure around vermin. "Well, Skuli," Thordan grinned. "You do know what is to be done, do you not?" "To pepper the enemy with projectiles," the weasel lifted up his crossbow. It was one for hunting birds, not shooting woodlanders in the head, but it will do just the same. "We harass them with slings, bolts, darts and arrows, and let you woodlanders handle the close-quarter fighting." "Correct!" Thordan jumped up like a child. "A detailed explanation, Skuli. If you survive the battle, perhaps we shall reward you." "Thank you for the incentive, Your Radiance." "Ah well. Form ranks, beasts. The hour has come!" ---- There was no pre-battle negotiation - not that Thordan would have attended it, anyway. The otter was in command of the left flank - hardly a prestigious position for a king, but he took it in stride, as he did with everything else. Facing the Jaysians would not be an easy task, but he believed in the power of the vermin under him - though Garmund may claim that he did so more than he should have. In front of him, he could see the Valnainers advance, and the Southards meeting them in a haze of cold steel. Thordan could have sworn that the earth turned redder and redder every second. Then it was the centre's turn to move. The raven of Parma flew high on two banners, but one of those was from the enemy. Otto Crestworth may have been a grasping, fuming schemer, but he was brave - unlike Thordan. All the more reason to get away from him. Another raven went forth to meet Otto-who-calls-himself-king - a white one; one a red field instead of a gold one. Prince Garmund's pikebeasts stopped their motion and stood, in one of their deeper formations, as the full force of the Parman king's charge slammed into them. Thordan raised a paw, and turned it away from himself. Standing in between the vermin and woodlander contingents was a risky move, but that meant that both armies can receive orders with maximum efficiency. Both sides of Thordan's forces know what he meant, and within seconds a burst of rocks, arrows and bolts whizzed through the air and into the Jaysians from the vermin's weapons. Thordan had no need of telling that the missiles had met their targets - the wrathful charge from the Jaysians was indication enough. They had not brought their own skirmishers - a possibly fatal mistake. Or were they in the main army? Twice the king's paw twirled again, and twice projectiles slammed into armour and flesh. Thordan wanted to go for a fourth time when he saw that the Jaysians were on the other side of the plain, screaming battlecries, but still orderly despite their casualties. "Fall back!" In an instant, shields and pavises, alongside slings and bows were quickly picked up as the mound of vermin scrambled into a more defensible formation. All around him, vermin were, then were not. Thordan had mere seconds to realise that he stuck out like a sore thumb. All the vermin around him were gone! He sprinted back into the woodlanders. This is crazy! I would break my neck running from armies all too easily! Thordan Skyward, you blasted fool! He made it, of course, a mere fifteen seconds before the Jaysian swordsbeasts reached the line of woodlanders. Of course, Thordan's woodlanders, most of them otters had mighty spears, bills and pikes - the shortest of them outreaching a proper Jaysian sabre for at least a foot. Who uses swords in battle anyways? With a mighty roar, the first line of Jaysians threw themselves on the beasts of Vargo - and promptly got themselves impaled on long pikes. Of course, the second knew that not, and the third even less so. Ending up on a long pike was not a fate anybeast should want, but tripping on corpses make this almost easy - pathetically easy, as Thordan might add. "Go on! Kill the vermin!" Being obscured by a helmet, Thordan could not have seen the enemy commander's face, but a high-ranking noble it must have been. Jaysians. When can their strategy not be 'GET 'EM'? Seriously. Mounds and mounds of beasts fell, some of them Thordan's own. Between all the blood and gore, Thordan saw it. A trap. They were outflanking him! "Form a schiltron!" He barked, but it was too late. Swords carved through joints between armour, and screams rent the air. Picking up his shield, Thordan rushed towards the nearest enemy - and tripped on a corpse. The shrew raised his paw, and his sabre with it. Normally, noblebeasts were expected to be taken as hostages, but this one was obstinate. Seeing death in the eyes for the first time, Thordan's eyes shut as he braced for cold steel to destroy him. Before anything touched Thordan, the clang of steel was heard. Opening his eyes, Thordan saw his enemy stiffen and his sabre fall from his paw. He dropped slowly as Thordan picked himself up and turned his head. A familiar weasel, short and lithe, ran towards him, helping him up. Thordan knew this one. "You - you just saved my life. You have my gratitude." Normally Thordan would have said more, but the heat of battle and the shock of that brush with death forced his mouth shut. Before waiting for any response, the otter charged back into the fray Near him, a rank of vermin barreled into the wave of Jaysians, with daggers thin enough to seep into necks and pawpits. As the bolts rained into the enemy, their commander charged forth to hold the shattering line - and swiftly received a stone to the helm. He dropped like a log. The Jaysians ran for the hills, quickly losing all incentive to fight. Some part of Thordan wanted to pursue, to make sure that no beast of those blasted isles would ever live to threaten him again. But he had bigger fish to fry. "Charge!" Thordan shouted as loudly as he could. "Charge at the Crestworths!" Gripping his sword, he ran forth besides his troops - and stopped when he passed Skuli. Reaching for the shorter beast, he smiled as the vermin turned his head "Weasel! Can you guard me for a second?" "My pleasure." Loading a crossbow seemed easy for such a small beast, and his name indicated a Dravain origin - not the best users of ranged weapons. "Well then." Thordan stopped and indicated the weasel to do the same as his beasts collided into the side of the Doman centre. 'It would be better to direct the battle from the back, so stay with me. I know, you'll miss the action, but think of all the ale." The next hour did not pass uneventfully. As easts died in heaps, arrows flew from one side to another, and spears, wood or steel, were cracked in two. A total of three beasts tried to weave through the lines and get to Thordan himself, but one got a bolt in the groin while Thordan bashed a mouse's head apart with his shield. Seeing their attempt go awry within seconds, the third beast, a mole, fled. The enemy force fled just like the mole. King Otto was the among the last to flee with his tail between his footpaws. As his East Otharn and Doman knights covered his retreat with their own steel and flesh, the so-called king sprinted into the forest. Thordan ordered Skuli to aim at the other otter's footpaws with his last bolt, but the shot whizzed over his helm, and the other king slinked out of sight. ---- It was done. All was undertaken, and Thordan could return to his rightful place as King of Otharn, and later High King of Parma if he had the prerequisite good fortune. But first, the nearby forests and fields have to be cleared of hostile troops. Little did Thordan know that fleeing woodlanders were not the only source of trouble the forest would give him. Chapter 1: The Magician Stepping through the Pathway, Matoya looked at her surroundings. A grove of trees encircled the ratmaid, mossy bark within sight at every angle. Insects buzzed around the flowers growing at the sparse areas that the trees had decided to show mercy upon, and the sound of birds chirping was everywhere. Life was everywhere to be seen, but there was no sign of intelligent life anywhere. Where is this place, anyway? Matoya recalled the events that had sent her here. Yashtol, her talk with Tancred, clashing with Minfille, winning… She tensed at the sounds of footpaws landing on the ground. Her experiences had taught her that they were quick, and not because they wanted to be quick - something was obviously spurring them on. Diving into the grass next to her, Matoya slowly made her way to the trees beside her on all fours, as a few armour-clad Landborn entered her sights. "Those vermin shoul' be far behind us now." A mouse panted, clearly panicky a second or two ago. "We did it." The squirrel next to him sat down to rest. "Vermin. A waste of space, that's what they are. Only the daft would try to use them as soldiers - they'll just betray Thordan sooner or later." The mouse nodded. "Yep. Lyin' backstabbin' freaks, they are." 'Vermin'? They're still calling us that… Matoya slowly crept back, only to hear the sound of a twig breaking. "Who's there? Show yourself!" The squirrel shouted, and the band of four beasts turned to her. She could not hide herself in time, but this lack of cover allowed her to study the Landborn in front of her. Aside from the mouse and the squirrel, there were also two hedgehogs, one who displayed a hostile glare, the other a predatory sneer. "Just a traveller. I come in peace." The ratmaid tried to sound as naturally as she could. "We have no reason to harm each other." "Well… not exactly." A hedgehog stepped forward, mace in paw. "You should be in one of Triel's slave pens now. We could always return you to your owner." Matoya bristled at the thought. Being owned by someone? What has happened to this world? "Anyways you, stinky vermin that you are, would tell King Thordan that we were here, and we cannot allow that to-" Matoya reached for the Stardust and the Ruin, and light filled the copse. Matoya's vision was flooded as well, and the air roared and burned with pain. When she let go, taint filtering away from her, she saw nothing but the charred remains of what used to be beasts. She turned, and stumbled straight into a fancily-clad otter. "Woah!" His armour signified a noble rank, but he surely did not speak like one. Besides, the weasel besides him meant that he probably was not aligned with the beasts burned away by Matoya's lightning. "You- you just summoned a bolt of thunder from the sky." "Bolt of lightning." The ratmaid corrected. "Who are you anyways?" The weasel spoke. "Thordan, King of Otharn and-" His voice was not as gritty as Matoya had expected, thought it was cut off by a nudge from the king. "Apologies, miss." He was polite enough, Matoya gave him that. Almost as polite as Tancred, in fact. "We did not mean to disturb you." He then immediately turned to his companion and whispered in his ear. Unfortunately for him, he failed to keep his volume down. "We should probably leave as fast as possible. Gates! She could conjure lighting from the heavens themselves." Before Matoya could explain the difference between Casting and Conjuring, the weasel 'whispered' no less loudly - perhaps their words were for her? "I think she's faking it." 'What? Didn't you see the massive bolt?" "She just got lucky and all!" Males! Arguing and more arguing over the smallest of things! "Well, Your Highness, just where would I stay the night here?" "Er…" King Thordan rubbed his head. 'Not exactly here. Your kind aren't exactly welcome here. Too many of you and yours have been chained up. Care to join us? We aren't exactly strangers to vermin…" "Forgive me this intrusion," the weasel spoke, "but are you planning to seduce anybeast again, Your Highness?" "What? No, Skuli, no!" Thordan didn't even bother with secrecy this time. "Do you really expect me to sleep with someone who can summon lightning from the sky/" "As a matter of fact, yes, Your Highness." Skuli chuckled at his own statement. "Oh, please do shut up, will you?" "Got that, Your Highness." "And I command you to just call me Thordan. You're just being patronising with the honorific." Matoya decided that it would be a good time to try another world instead of the Source. "Er… would it be a great idea to leave now?" The otter gave a sincere smile. "Yes. Yes it would. Our camp is just nearby." Before the ratmaid could justify in any way making a portal and jumping to another world, otter and weasel started to walk towards the west. Besides, she had done enough Casting already - she could not afford being contaminated again. Might as well join them… they seem trustworthy enough. Besides, that would be better than becoming some sort of slave. The way back to the camp was not long, though it was certainly boring. There was no doubt that what Thordan saw was real. Calling upon the forces of nature to smite one's enemies was a power only seen in legends of old, and only a few ones that nobeast talked about nowadays. Skuli did not believe, of course. He was different from most vermin, Thordan knew that much. Maybe one day he would be glad for it, but he was currently an annoyance at best. A more sensible beast, woodlander or vermin, would have bowed to the magician ratmaid, though apparently common sense was not for kings and vermin. Nobeast said anything, which made the walk back even more tense. On one paw, there was this ratmaid who can kill anybeast who stood in her way - if she wanted to. On another, there was the weasel who was loyal to Thordan and will probably refrain from shooting them both with his crossbow - if he wanted to. On the third paw, if it did exist (which it didn't), was Thordan, who could order them both executed when he has more soldiers on his side - if he wanted to. Needless to say, this presents an interesting dynamic that Thordan would like to dabble and exploit - if somebeast would just please say anything. After around ten minutes of walking, and the otterking trying to start a conversation, they had finally arrived into their main camp, to be greeted by Prince Garmund. "We won." The mouse simply stated, and sighed. "Lord Gavin's dead." Thordan's heart leaped up, and his body would have done the same if he had not restrained himself at the last moment. Lord Gavin, the ever-jolly friend of Thordan's, was no more. "What happened to him?" "Poleaxe to the neck. He saved his brother from a Valnainer knight, but - but the worst happened to him." "Where's Lord Haakon now?" "Crying his eyes out. I doubt you would want to see him, nor he would want to see you. Not in this state." Garmund was not a particularly nuanced beast, but he managed to say just as many words as he should have. "Oh…" Thordan exhaled. "I am sorry that he would have to die for my cause. Let us hope that he would not be the first of many." Garmund nodded, and turned to the otter's two companions. The weasel did not catch his attention - he wore the uniform of one of Thordan's arbalists. The rat, however, was not familiar, and Thordan saw the prince's eyes roll. "I still do not understand your obsession with vermin maids, Thordan." The otter took a step back while Skuli signalled for Matoya to hold her tongue, which she did with some difficulty. "Er… I doubt you would understand, being a Trielian and stuff. The musk is simply just -" It was Garmund's time to shudder, his face contorting, causing the otterking to hide a chuckle. Garmund was never the best with females - despite more than thirty seasons of military service, he had never once kissed a female in his relatively long life. "You're giving out too much information, Thordan. It would be a very good idea to stop now." "Alright. I'll stop." Thordan bowed. Garmund was the sole figure of reason in the Trielian court, and he used to be Thordan's only ally. In fact, the older mouse was quite the father figure - he had no children of his own due to his problems with mousemaids, so he doted on the foreign-born ottercub as much as he could. "Not is not a time for mourning, Thordan." Garmund reached up a paw, and smiled as his former charge took it. "We will celebrate your victory, and the lives of those who had lost as well." "You let her escape?" The beast titled Haumeric trembled as he sat, his head tilted down and his eyes avoiding Zephirin's glare as carefully as he could. Apparently his personal friendship with Zephirin could not save him from a scolding. "I let my heart rule over my mind again." Haumeric tried to apologise, but was immediately silenced with a paw being held in front of him. "Do not talk of this not happening again. You have a tendency to make the same mistakes over and over again, and laugh while doing so. Not to mention, you placed an Amplifier in your charge's room, ignoring law and custom, and endangering all the other worlds in the process." "That was my fault." Hermenoste spoke, allowing her axe to tumble onto the floor. "I gave it to Haumeric without telling him of the staff's true nature." The badger sow was normally quite a reasonable beast, and eager to complete a mission, but she, like Haumeric, let her emotions rule her mind at the last moment. "I see." Zephirin rubbed his chin. He was short, even for a shrew, but by Vulpuz, he was more intimidating than Minfille on a bad fur day. Unlike the other two, he was ruled by emotion and his sense of justice. When that didn't work, he led his sword do the talking, and it was a really good start to any conversation. "You two must not allow any taint to flow into the Source, or any other world that she goes to. Whatever the cost." Hermenoste stood up, picking up her axe in the process. "Would you like her alive or dead?" Before Haumeric could hope for the former, Zephirin shrugged. "Either suits me. But make sure of this - no innocent beast is allowed to die from the actions of you two. Ensure that you two harm nobeast in the other world unless in self-defence, for the defense of the weaker or the completion of your mission." "We swear by all worlds to do so." Within seconds, Haumeric felt the net of his oaths fit tightly around him, and Minfille must have felt the same. A Conjurer cannot break his word, after all, and their existence can never be discovered by otherworldly inhabitants, lest they be trapped or killed by those who do not wish to see them return. "Very well. You two may find a place to land." Chapter 2: The High Priestess Thordan liked Arnet. He spent his earliest years back in Garlesca, but Prince Garmund brought him there when he was about ten seasons old. Everything awed him there. Castles spread through the cityscape, and there were at least three that can be seen wherever one was in the city. Fond memories could not sustain the young king, however. Arnet was not his destination. Prince Garmund's eyes fluttered once more, and his eyelids slammed shut. The drug the mouseprince had consumed was working perfectly. He'll snooze the whole journey from Duskai to Vargo in fear of seasickness, which, Thordan guessed, was probably a mouse thing. Duskai surrendered almost immediately after they heard the news from Balv, though the city had allowed Otto Crestworth to slip into their paws, then slip away again. Slippery like an eel - like he was a true king or something. "Are ye sure ye haven't added too much?" The weasel next to him said softly, for fear of waking the mouse. "I did my calculations. It's just right." The otter put down his flask. "He'll wake up every sunrise before we land in Esoria. That will be about eleven or so." "I see." The weasel failed to hide his smile. Thordan had rewarded him with quite the bag of gold, which he refused to spend on drink or pleasurable company. The otterking could only guess what his plans were. "Do you like Vargo?" Thordan asked, earning a twitch of Skuli's ears as a surprise. "Y-yes." The weasel nodded fervently. "It's a nice place, and I wish I wuz born there. Why ask?" "Well, it's just that I have never been there. Never." "Never? Not even once?" Skuli asked, astonished. Thordan shook his head. "Come on! Yarr supposed ter be Lord Elector of Vargo! At least show some care to the city!" The weasel pranced around the cabin. "That's why I asked you to tell me about it!" Thordan exclaimed. Garmund, still on the bed, stirred, shocking the talkative duo back into silence. Fortunately, he did nothing but stir. "Maybe we should get some fresh air." Thordan whispered. "Agreed." Skuli nodded. Walking up to the deck, Thordan couldn't help but realise how close he and the weasel had become. He had stopped being fearful of the otter, and, perhaps more importantly, he had also stopped being patronising. "What do you think of Vargo, Skuli?" Thordan asked again, this time less out of the blue. "It would be a nice place fer ye, Thordan." Despite Thordan ordering the weasel to just call the otter by his first name, it still rolled off awkwardly from Skuli's tongue. "For me?" Thordan laughed. "What about you?" The otter could have sworn that a few unpleasant memories entered the vermin's brain at that moment. "My memories are less good." Before Thordan could inquire more about the subject, Skuli silenced him. "And that is all I have to say about it. Nothing more." "I see." There was a tense silence before Skuli spoke again. "Where's the ratmaid? Mattie or whatever?" "Matoya. I tried to use the sleeping medication on her, but she said that she could handle the seasickness." Thordan smiled. "Apparently this wasn't the case, and I pity the beast who has to clean her cabin afterwards." "Is it dat bad?" Skuli enquired. "Apparently not." A weak, hoarse voice poked out from one of the cabins, followed by a rodent's head poking out. "You have a habit of exaggerations, What's your name again?" "Thordan." "Well, Thordan," Matoya's voice creaked. "You need to start telling the truth more. Lies are not good for your health. Especially with that crown on your head." "Don't you worry, ratmaid. A king always keeps his word. I haven't lied since… I was born? That's a close estimate, anyways. You see, the best way not to break your word is to not give your word at all." "Are you sure that you have never lied? Like, ever?" Matoya seemed absolutely dumbfounded at the prospect of having somebeast being completely and brutally honest to her. Vermin were probably completely used to other beasts using deception and trickery. Even vermin that could summon thunder from the skies. "No. Why do you ask?" Thordan raised a brow. "None of your business, otterking." With that last sentence, she hurried back into her cabin, but not before reaching for a mop and a bucket from nearby. "Weird little maid, huh?" Skuli piped up. "Why does she want to know that much? It isn't like she's going mad or something." "Mad with the desire for knowledge, perhaps?" Thordan rubbed his chin. "She's not the first beast with maddening curiosity that you have set your eyes upon." He grinned. "Speaking of curiosity, what are you going to do with your money?" "Probably saving it for later. You don't know what the future holds." The following days were quite boring for the otterking. Garmund woke up and finally succumbed to seasickness (he did not die, of course), Skuli got a piece of the action as well, and Matoya pestered him with questions. Thordan had arranged for the fleet to make port on land as often as possible. Esoria in Aldernan, Arlezia in Ilsadia, Muir in the Lordship of Vargo (which Thordan did indeed love), and too many little towns to name. But at last, after so long, there he was. Vargo, the city of waters. Scattered throughout the cities were palaces, watch-towers and other large buildings, and every five blocks was a spire. Squares are also quite common, and almost every one of them are dotted by statues or fountains. Vargo was no Arnet, but he would cherish it regardless. One way or the other. When Thordan's uncle died, he had left instructions asking Lord Garrion of Kaldos to take control of Vargo in Thordan's name. The Dravanian lord's first act upon reaching the city was to fall ill, and his second was to drop dead. Quite anticlimatic for an illustrious lord, but his son managed the city well enough, being able to hold out through many a Doman siege. Thordan would get the city back after Lord Gavin gave it back to him. However, seeing as the otterlord was currently very dead, this business would be simpler than expected, though not in the fashion Thordan desired. He had declined the tempting offer of waltzing through the streets in favour of marching directly into the castle. Skuli wandered off back home, or perhaps to somebeast else's house - the weasel had declined to provide specifics. In a way, Thordan had returned home as well - a home he had never been to, sure, but still a home indeed. To be fair to his predecessors, they had made the city much more populous than it once was. Any self-respecting historian could have said that Vargo was founded by Dravanian exiles, who just happened to be Thordan's ancestors. The twin doors were opened by servants, and Thordan entered his castle for the first time in his life. Everything had been kept in order, even after Lord Gavin had gone. Lord Gavin had done a great job keeping everything together. Now it was Thordan's turn. "So you are here." A high-pitched voice greeted Thordan. Clothed in mourning black from head to footpaw, Blanche of Graille was no fearsome sight, but she had a tongue that was her best and only defence. She needed no other. "It would seem so." A more mature voice appeared, and Thordan felt his mood sour slightly. He recognised the voice's owner. After all, they were married. Putting on his mask of false but needed charisma, he smiled. "Elayna, dear. It is a pleasure to see you." Not for me though. But certainly for Blanche. And Haakon as well, I suppose. "So it is." The queen said softly. Wedding me to a spinster twice my age. Whose idea was that? "I'm sorry about Lord Gavin." Thordan bowed to Blanche. "I could not save him." "What did I tell you about blaming yourself?" Blanche seemed not to take offence. "Don't blame everything on yourself. For me, Gavin died a hero. I am sure that others will agree." Now would be a good time to change the subject. "How's Becker?" "He's the lively boy that you once were." Queen Elayna closed her eyes thinking of happier times while Thordan cringed, not at the words, but the thought of just exactly how wild his childhood was. Elayna was a Swalestrom, the most prominent house in all Southsward, and a cousin to both Haakon, who had decided to travel by land, and Gavin, who would not be present for obvious reasons. Blanche was a different story. She had been born to some Valnainer House, which fell out of favour a few seasons after she was born. She quickly fell in love and married Lord Gavin, just in time for him to die. "Becker will get along well with his sister." The widow said, patting her belly. "I think it will be a brother." Thordan chuckled. "Still the best sibling though." "I hope so." Elayna nodded. "It's like flipping a coin or something. Anyway, I have something to do. I shall see you two at dinner." Thordan waved goodbye as his spouse sauntered out. "Abelard's here, I guess." Thordan scoffed. Blanche gasped. "You know about him?" "The exploits of Sir Abelard Windsail are known to quite a lot of beasts." Thordan forced another smile. Windsail was just following his heart. There was no need to be jealous. "I may be King of Parma, but I do not hold a monopoly on extramarital affairs. Besides, Elayna and Abelard haven't consummated their love yet, which is good enough for me." "So what are you going to do now?" Blanche crossed her paws. "I will wait. Let the plot progress." "Since when had waiting suited you?" "Well, er…" For once, Thordan was lost for words. Rubbing his chin, he didn't even realise that the smile had dropped from his face. Mundhaven was like a dark corner of Vargo. That one book on the case that nobeast really touches. That one piece of bread left in the oven too long, which looked like a lump of ash instead of anything edible. The sole vermin in a crowd of woodlanders. The fortress of the town had been tested time after time by Thordan's ancestors right up to his father, and it had never fallen to sword, crossbow, catapult, or any besieger. A smooth tongue and the arrows which were words were the only things able to penetrate these walls. Within those walls sat a king in name on a chair that was a throne no longer. "You're really going to Thordan, are you?" Knud asked his father, who looked downright disinterested in what he had to say. "Yes, yes." Otto Crestworth sighed. The otter was not old, but one would not know at first glance. His voice was raspy, and his memories seemed to hemorrhage out of his head. One battle. One battle was all it took to bring my father to his knees. The king got up on his two footpaws again, though he could not have done so without his son. "I intend to meet my fate standing up and smiling. Thordan has no shortage of smiles, so I suppose I can spare one." Knud almost dropped his father off a flight of stairs. "Would he trust you?" "I do not need to be trusted by anybeast else." Otto bade his son back, and he relented. "I only have to trust myself. And hope." "Hope for what?" Knud. "Mercy?" "Release." Otto sighed once more. "Release from my duties." "What do you mean?" Knud was never so puzzled ever in his seventeen seasons, even when his father remarried and he felt that unexplainable rage overtake him. "I'm casting the kingship away." "Why?" Knud was angry again, even though he should be more intrigued than anything. "House Crestworth has fought for the throne for a hundred seasons, and now you're on it! Why give up? Tell me!" "It's just that the burden's too heavy for one beast to bear."Category:Stories